David McElroy

I haven’t been able to escape all of the dysfunctional programming from my childhood.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s not that I haven’t grown emotionally and done a lot of psychological healing. It’s just that bits and pieces of the dysfunction affect me when I least expect it. I can feel like a normal and healthy adult when something randomly triggers things that I hope I’ve conquered.

“We own you!” the voice seems to hiss. “We tell you what to do. What to think. You’re not good enough. Nobody likes you. Everybody is attacking you. They’re disappointed in you. What’s wrong with you?”

Who is the voice?

It’s hard to say for sure. Whatever it is started with my narcissistic father. He was angry and critical and demanding with me. He taught me to be afraid. He taught me to doubt myself. He taught me to fear that I was being attacked and demeaned and belittled.

And even though he’s been dead for years, some remnant of his voice still lives in my head in a form I can’t quite explain or understand. But whatever it is, I can say one thing clearly.

That voice is a liar.

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I’ve recently discovered color. And sound. And motion. It’s changing everything.

Metaphorically speaking, I’ve been living in a world of black-and-white still images for most of my life. I didn’t realize what I had been missing.

I’m slowly starting to see the world as a full-color, three-dimensional sensory experience with amazing sound — intellectually speaking.

I’ve always thought I was a bright guy. I’ve always considered myself well-read and well-educated. I’ve probably been a little smug about it.

About 10 years ago, I started adding to my intellectual diet. Although I had read a lot of fiction when I was young — mostly science fiction — the bulk of my real reading diet had been very factual and very practical. I’d mostly read about things that seemed pragmatic — business, economics, politics and psychology.

I started reading classic literature and essays. Leo Tolstoy. Hermann Hesse. Fyodor Dostoevsky. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Montaigne. Alexandre Dumas. G.K. Chesterton. Even Charles Dickens. The more I read, the more I realized how ignorant I had been.

I suddenly realized that these people made me look like an intellectual pygmy — and the fact that their work had been popular with masses of people in their own days made me realize how far our intellectual standards have fallen.

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About 20 years ago, I met and dated a beautiful and charming woman. She was the stereotypical California blonde. Tall and beautiful.

I could tell she was impressed by money and material things, but I ignored that. And I quickly noticed signs that she wasn’t entirely trustworthy. I ignored that, too. Why?

Because she was beautiful and charming and intelligent. She had so much potential. If she could just change in a few specific ways, she would be the perfect woman for me.

The relationship ended quickly. She acted badly in ways that were entirely predictable. I had allowed myself to be blinded by the things that attracted me to her. If you listed all of her pluses and minuses, she might’ve scored a 90 or 95 percent. But the parts of her that were completely wrong for me were the non-negotiables.

I let myself be swayed by what I wanted to be true. She showed me — very early — who she really was. I just didn’t believe her.

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